


Breaking the Habit

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [123]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background France/Scotland (Hetalia), Background South Italy/Spain (Hetalia), Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24774424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: August, 2013: After two years spent perpetuating a lie, Wales is finally ready and willing to try changing his sham relationship with Romano into a real one.His one proviso is that Romano confronts his feelings for Spain first, which Romano seems strangely reluctant to do.
Relationships: South Italy/Wales (Hetalia)
Series: Feel the Fear [123]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/33455
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	Breaking the Habit

**Author's Note:**

> For a variety of reasons, I've had awful writer's block for the past few weeks and made very little progress on my various WiPs as a consequence.
> 
> In an effort to jolt myself out of my rut, I decided to try and begin another... Though this is a story I've been meaning to make a start on for a while now!

* * *

**August, 2013; Rome, Italy**

Travel does not agree with Wales. Neither does hot weather, nor early starts.

Since he awoke at five o'clock that morning, he's been in a state of constant movement: from the bleary-eyed and not quite half-awake drive to Bristol airport made in the sepia-tinted dawn, to three hours crammed into a narrow aeroplane seat, every muscle in his body bunched tense and rigid with the low-grade but constant terror he always feels when flying, and then the flustered rush to catch the next train departing from Fiumicino Airport to central Rome. He had spent almost the entire half-hour of the subsequent journey gasping to regain his breath, his head pounding in concert with the rhythmic thud of the train wheels as they passed over rail joints.

When he finally disembarks at Termini station, it feels as though he's stepping out into an oven. Back home in Cardiff, the temperature has regularly been hitting the low twenties of late – high enough to render Wales lethargic and useless come the afternoon, unfit for anything more strenuous than sitting in a deck chair in his back garden, fanning himself with a concertinaed section of newspaper whilst he and Janice complain over their shared fence about the heat just as spiritedly as they'd complained about the cold the season prior.

He doesn't know what the precise temperature is here and now but suspects it can reasonably be assumed to rival the surface of the sun.

Not wanting to subject the inhabitants of Rome in general, and Romano in particular, to the sight of more of the fish-belly pallor of his skin than is strictly necessary, Wales has dressed in light linen trousers and a long-sleeved cotton shirt rather than his normal summertime uniform of a t-shirt and shorts as brief as common public decency allows. It might, perhaps, have been a mistake. Though there's no danger of him dazzling passers-by with the light reflecting off his pasty legs, he works up enough of a sweat during the short walk between the platform and station house proper that both his shirt and trousers are sticking unpleasantly close to his skin at the end of it.

Instead of continuing straight on to meet up with Romano, Wales makes a detour into the nearest gents in the hopes of being able to freshen himself up a little first. 

A single glance in one of the mirrors there reveals that that hope is not just vain but non-existent. His clothes are not only visibly damp in patches but so badly crumpled as a result of his long journey that it looks as though he's been sleeping in them for several days, and his hair – as is its wont in less temperate climes – has quadrupled in volume and is sticking out almost at right angles from his head. His complexion has taken on a florid but blotchy hue somewhat reminiscent of corned beef.

He splashes his face with a double cupped handful of cold water and then smooths his hair down as best he can with a second. It doesn't much help; he just looks bedraggled afterwards as well as dishevelled. Without recourse to a shower or, at the very least, ten minutes sit down and a nice cup of tea, there's not much he can do to fix any of it, though.

Not wanting to risk sparking Romano's ire by keeping him waiting any longer than he has to, he can only pick up his bag again and press on back out into the station concourse, slaloming through the milling crowds until he reaches their usual meeting point, just outside the ticket office.

Predictably, Romano looks to be perfectly coiffed, polished, and unrumpled despite the heat of the day, and, just as predictably, he's frowning; no doubt annoyed by Wales' abject failure to teleport himself immediately from the platform to his side and the five minute delay thus incurred between the train's arrival and his approach. 

Given the revelations that accompanied their last meeting, Wales had imagined that Romano's expression might soften a little upon catching sight of him, but instead it darkens even further. He makes a guttural sound at the back of his throat, something caught between a tut and a groan. Romano has an entire lexicon of disapproving noises at his disposal, each entry wordless, but imbued with subtle meaning by their tone, volume, and duration. This particular one, by Wales' reckoning, roughly translates to 'You're a disgrace'.

Nevertheless, he still pulls Wales into a hug, and whilst he does sniff pointedly when they're pressed together at their closest, he refrains from telling Wales he stinks this time.

He also refrains from following up the hug with a kiss. He simply draws back and says, " _Galles_."

" _De_ ," Wales says with a nod, mirroring his flat tone.

It's an oddly formal greeting, given what they are – or are trying to be – to one another. Wales wonders, and not for the first time, if he should ask Romano to call him Cymru when they're alone, and not just when they're making pretend cow eyes at each other in front of an audience. Somehow, the time just doesn't seem right, though, and both the thought and the urge to act on it quickly passes away. 

"Let me carry your bag," Romano suggests in the exact same instant he makes a grab for the strap, taking Wales so much by surprise that he pulls back entirely on reflex. 

There follows a thoroughly undignified but mercifully brief tug-of-war over possession of the bag – one which Wales immediately concedes as soon as his brain catches up with reality and he realises that Romano had merely intended to be chivalrous and wasn't, as Wales' body had instinctively believed, trying to rob him.

Romano doesn't seem any happier to have won. He shoulders Wales' bag, pivots on his heel, and stomps away at a brisk pace Wales struggles to match, almost losing sight of him several times as he wends his way through the station and out onto the streets beyond. 

When they reach his little car, he flings the bag unceremoniously into the back seat, and thereafter hurls himself into the driver's seat with equal violence. Wales opens the passenger side door and then hesitates, feeling reluctant to take up his own seat. 

He'd not allowed himself to become too optimistic about this visit despite everything Romano had told him – confessed to him – in Cardiff, but he had still held out the hope that he might meet with a slightly warmer welcome than he used to be accorded, given everything that had transpired between them and he quails at the thought of subjecting himself to yet another round of sullen silences punctuated by the occasional overt insult and even more occasional perfunctory sex act.

Romano stares at him in silence for a beat or two, eyes narrowed, but then his expression finally thaws, a small smile tugging uncertainly at the corners of his lips.

"Sorry," he says. "Bad morning."

The words are spoken brusquely, sounding more like a command than any sort of apology, but the sentiment behind them is so unexpected that Wales finds them mollifying, regardless.

"I suppose it’s a lot of work, setting up a world meeting," he says, sliding into the passenger seat and closing the door behind him.

Romano nods sharply. "Especially when Veneziano insists everything has to be absolutely perfect," he says.

" _Lloegr_ 's exactly the same way," Wales says. "I made the mistake of staying over at his house the last time he was hosting, and he had me up at four o'clock every morning so we could get into the hotel before anyone else got up and make sure that all the chairs in the conference room were perfectly aligned, that there were exactly the right number of coffee cups set out, and all sorts of nonsense like that."

  
Romano's nod this time is much vaguer, suggesting that his own brother's worries are far divorced from England's – most likely concerning the comfort of the attendees, the aesthetics of their venue, and the minutiae of the catering and not getting the vapours because some piece of bland hotel furniture had been arranged slightly askew or he was convinced that they'd been short-changed on the teaspoons.

Still, it's a tiny sliver of shared experience, a small point of connection which, no matter how tenuous, is better than they've ever managed to scrape together in the past. It helps Wales feel a little more sanguine about the week ahead. He smiles back at Romano.

Romano blinks at him and then ducks his head. "Right," he says, fumbling his key into the car's ignition. "You ready to go?"

Romano's driving makes even Scotland's seem like that of an overly cautious octogenarian, and he doesn't usually give Wales enough advance warning to brace and prepare himself before peeling away from the kerb at hair-raising speed, leaving Wales' stomach lagging far behind.

The uncharacteristic courtesy is also heartening, and it raises warmth to Wales' cheeks. He can feel them pinking.

"Yes," he says, grabbing tight hold of the edges of his seat and closing his eyes. "I'm ready." 


End file.
